The cure is becoming the affliction. I'm starting to question the continued use of medical marijuana. It makes me lethargic in the morning. I'm sleeping better, so perhaps feelings of indolence are perfectly natural and how many people must feel, but it bothers me that there is not some magical intoxicant that I can legitimately use for an actual ongoing medical condition.
Also, I don't trust potheads. They often talk about the benefits of marijuana. I'm always left quizzical because the speaker never seems to possess the improved qualities that are self-claimed by its use. I hear mild tales about productivity, ability to focus, and creativity, but when I look carefully at the subject I am left to wonder as to how these benefits have been able to somehow manifest themselves within a person without leaving any discernible record.
I've spent my life lying to doctors, hoping vainly that some inner twisted tickle would cause an unexpected outpouring of sympathy from them in the form of a series of dangerous narcotic prescriptions.
Usually, this hope fails. My recourse becomes a few swigs of NyQuil that afternoon. Every now and then a doctor will shine a light down into the farm fountainhead that is the wellspring of my health and drop down a few benzodiazepines, which help offset the stresses and strains of conditional awareness.
Okay, less rain, more sky; same horizon.
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